


This House Is Not A Home

by diadema



Series: Excerpts (From The Vault) [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Childhood Friends, Friendship, Inspired by Fanart, Multi, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2019-05-09 11:03:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14714825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diadema/pseuds/diadema
Summary: After long years apart, three childhood friends are reunited as Aurors and called to serve a higher purpose.





	This House Is Not A Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SydneyMo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SydneyMo/gifts), [Somedeepmystery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedeepmystery/gifts).



> Inspired by [this gorgeous piece of fanart](http://bloomsbury.tumblr.com/post/129417137231/well-it-was-bound-to-happen-i-give-you-the-new) by one of my favorite Gallya artists. I thought she had made Illya a Hufflepuff (like me!), but on closer inspection and in tracking it down to its original source, that is... not the case. Whoops! But Waverly's a Gryffindor in this, so that has to count for something, right? :P Be sure to check out her other work too, and hey, if someone on Tumblr would like to let her know about this story, I would be super grateful!
> 
> Just like my Star Wars: The Force Awakens AU, this piece was written back in February, but I hope to be back with 'new' content soon. I am gifting it to the lovely SydneyMo, who got her start in the Harry Potter fandom, and to my dear Somedeepmystery, who has expressed a particular fondness for this AU and whose support and input is invaluable to me. This was originally meant as a one-off, but who knows? I might expand on it in the future.
> 
> Please enjoy! <3

She frowns as she writes, her quill an exasperated scratch against the parchment. The paperwork is her least favorite part of the job, especially when she feels like she could be, _should_ be put to a better use than this. The door opens with a bang and two Aurors march in, expressions grim from a long, difficult night.

“Gaby,” the taller one greets her, a sharp nod as he strips off his coat. A little thrill runs through her, even as she searches both him and his partner for signs of injury.

“Hello, Illya,” she says, before turning to face the other man. Her voice is a low, playful coo as she addresses him. “Niffler.”

Solo wrinkles his nose at the moniker: a nickname she had given him years ago at Hogwarts. She, the keen-eyed Ravenclaw, calling out the Slytherin Head Boy for one of his… _extra-curricular_ activities. Much like the thieving mole-like creature, the young man had a penchant for anything that glittered.

“Good to see the both of you back in one piece,” she continues, setting the quill down with a flourish. Gaby won’t ever admit to being worried about them. Solo and Illya are two of the best Aurors the Ministry had ever known.

But, then again, so is she.

“It would have been better had you been with us,” Illya says quietly. He quickly drops his gaze from hers and crosses over to his desk in two, long strides. Gaby can feel her cheeks warming, a similar heat blooming within her chest.

She shoots Solo a warning look, daring him to make a comment. He smiles benignly at her instead and heads to his own workstation, sighing as he drops into his seat. “I agree with Peril. Things tend to go more smoothly when you’re around.”

She accepts the compliment with a short hum. Of _course_ she would prefer to be in the field, but as one of the first—and currently, the _only_ female Auror—she is still fighting to earn her place at the top.

Missions deemed too ‘dangerous’ for a woman leave her gnashing her teeth back at the office. Waverly is doing everything he can for her and she knows she should be grateful. Indeed, he was the only Ministry Official who had taken her career aspirations seriously.

Gaby’s work, though has come with strings attached. Not Waverly’s doing, but rather, the Ministry’s. If she wants to play the game, then Gaby has to abide by their rules, no matter how much she may resent them.

She smiles thinly. “Next time,” she says, before going back to her work.

Waverly had given her a chance—the same way that he had risked his position on her similarly unorthodox partners. They were misfits, all of them, but that is how it has always been.

* * *

 

The three Aurors had known each other—briefly—at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Solo had been the oldest, an American who had moved to London when he was young. He had never lost the accent, nor the bold personality she’s come to expect across the pond.

Illya had arrived at their school, silent, scowling, and oh so serious. Rumors surrounded him, cloaked him in relentless secrecy. He had studied at Durmstrang, but for reasons unknown, would now be attending Hogwarts. Matters were further complicated when he had been sorted into _Hufflepuff_ of all Houses.

It had intrigued her. A boy who had obviously known pain and loss and _grief,_ whose temper caused him alternately to withdraw and lash out, could also be characterized by something gentler. She supposes now it makes sense. The incredible work ethic and the loyalty, but in those days, something else had caught her attention.

Illya largely kept to himself, though that had hardly come as a surprise. Gaby would often pass him in the library, hunched over a book or a solitary game of Wizard’s Chess, or taking long walks of the grounds by himself. What _did_ surprise her, though, was how much time he spent in the greenhouse.

For someone who had been so firmly cast by the others as a disciple of the Dark Arts, the Russian boy seemed to love herbology. Creation, rather than destruction.

Gaby herself was an orphan, a fellow foreigner. It was solely by the grace of her benefactor (and now employer), Alexander Waverly, that she was allowed to attend Hogwarts at all. As the school year had progressed, Gaby began to note the way that Illya’s eyes would follow after her, perhaps reading the same loneliness within her as well.

She soon made a point of greeting him whenever she saw him. They rarely spoke more than that, but the silence never seemed uncomfortable. Gaby would work on her own tasks and leave when she had finished; Illya would nod shyly at her wave, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly.

 

* * *

 

Just when Gaby had begun to doubt that she would _ever_ draw the Russian out of his shell, Illya had called out to her on her walk. It had caught her off-guard, and she hadn’t been prepared for the way her pulse had quickened at the sound of her name.

She hadn’t even realized he’d known it.

Illya looked flushed, but determined as he’d started to make his way towards her. Gaby moved to meet him halfway when a group of Slytherin boys approached. These were older students, older than Illya even, and spoiling for a fight.

Gaby couldn’t hear what they said to him, but Illya’s hands had begun to shake. He tried to walk away, but they persisted, cornering him. One of the boys reached for his wand, and she tensed instinctively. Someone else, though, was quicker.

_“Expelliarmus.”_

The American seemed to have apparated out of nowhere, authoritative even without the badge. Gaby began edging closer to the scene, anger and curiosity driving her onwards. The apparent leader of the group—Vinciguerra, she recalls—had stared at Solo, speechless.

The boy’s cronies seemed uneasy with this new development, hands still hovering at their sides.

“Turning on your own House, Solo?” Vinciguerra sneered. “All for the sake of some filthy—”

He didn’t finish his sentence.

Gaby launched herself at him with a yell, her head colliding into his chest, knocking him to the ground. The boy swung wildly at her. She tasted blood, fumbled for her wand. _“Petrificus totalus,”_ she growled past the split in her lip.

Beside her, the other two Slytherins were firing wildly. Solo and Illya deflected the spells easily, quickly disarming (and subduing) their attackers. The American had eyed them both coldly as he straightened his tie back into place.

Though he looked distinctly pained to do so, he also unfroze Vinciguerra.

“I _will_ be taking House points for this,” he said. “Now, get out of my sight before I report this to the Headmaster.”

The boys took off at a run. They watched them go before Solo turned to help Gaby to her feet. She took a moment to dust herself off, to steady the pounding in her chest.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Gaby had ignored him in favor of checking on Illya. The Hufflepuff looked ashen, trembling with rage and adrenaline. She didn’t know what had come over her then, but Gaby had wrapped her hands around his wrists, ordered him to look at her.

_“Breathe.”_

He had flinched at her touch, but it seemed to calm him just the same. Illya blinked slowly, frowning down at her, and, she noted self-consciously, was staring at her mouth. “You’re bleeding.”

One hand had reached up to gently touch the cut on her lip. A shiver had raced down her spine. Then, the bells rang, causing them to jump apart.

“I’m fine,” she said, more briskly than she’d intended. “I need to get to class.”

Gaby had managed a small smile as she turned to Solo. “Thank you for your help.”

 

* * *

 

Despite being in different years and different Houses, a friendship of sorts had tentatively formed between them. Their paths didn’t cross often, but they looked out for one another just the same— Gaby covering for Solo in the aforementioned ‘Niffler’ incident, Illya serving as the Slytherin’s dueling partner while he prepared for his N.E.W.T., and Solo reciprocating in his own, indirect fashion.

There was a stretch of time, she remembers, when apples began suddenly appearing around her: left for her in all her regular haunts, snuck into her bag. It had baffled her, until one of them had had a note pinned to it with the initials _N.S._ at the bottom.

She had tucked the message away, hefted the apple in her palm with a huff.

That week, while the older students went to visit Hogsmeade, Gaby found Illya in his usual corner of the library, empty save for the first and second years. She hadn’t spoken a word, only pulled him by the hand and led him through the maze of stairs and out into the sunshine.

They walked in silence to the edge of the forest where the winged, spectral creatures known as Thestrals were grazing. She pulled the apples from her pocket (they were waiting for her in the Ravenclaw common room) and handed one to Illya.

“You can see them,” he said, with more sadness than surprise. Those who have witnessed Death always carry a trace of it with them: a lonely, little echo of innocence lost. He didn’t ask, and neither did she.

Gaby simply nodded, and let one of the younger Thestrals nibble at the fruit in her palm. They wandered among the herd for a while, talking lowly to the creatures, stroking their necks, and feeding them. She was again struck by the gentleness and care in the young man with her, how quickly the Thestrals warmed to him.

Illya looked more at home than she had ever seen him, a boy familiar, comfortable even, amid the sacred and the sorrowful; though she supposed, that creatures were easier than people. Gaby could relate.

The Hufflepuff had extended a slightly stilted invitation to join him in the greenhouse after, where he had curated the collection of plants, both wizarding and Muggle ones alike. She had enjoyed listening to him speak: the steady cadence of his voice, the way his blue eyes lit up when she recognized some of the more obscure herbs.

When they had parted ways that afternoon, Illya had thanked her in that quiet way of his, clasping her hand between his broad ones. Gaby had caught sight of a familiar figure clad in green-and-silver in the distance, and smiled.

 

* * *

 

A couple of weeks later, Illya had returned the favor.

Gaby had been spending less and less time in the library and more and more time on the Quidditch pitch. They were playing Gryffindor soon, and she wanted to get as much practice in as possible. A tired, anxious energy rattled in her bones as she continued to push herself, feeling the full weight of her team’s, her _House’s_ expectations. Gaby was the Ravenclaw Seeker—light, fast, and untouchable on a broomstick—but her opponents had the advantage in terms of overall skill and experience.

It had startled her one night to realize she’d had an audience. Illya sat by himself in the stands, pretending to look utterly absorbed in his textbook. He had grinned up at her when she approached.

“What are you doing here?” she breathed, slightly unsteadied by that smile.

“Studying,” he rumbled. “I have not seen you in a long time. You have been busy.”

Gaby’s pulse stuttered traitorously. _Had he missed her?_ She was not one for attachments, though she realized she _had_ grown used to his presence. “I am studying too,” she said lightly.

He hummed. “It should be a good match. I am looking forward to it.”

“I didn’t think you went to the games.”

Illya’s composure had faltered slightly. “I didn’t. At least, not at first. But then our Houses played, and I started to… take an interest. You are excellent Seeker.”

She was grateful, then, for the twilit semi-darkness and how it masked the rise of color to her cheeks. Before she could respond, Illya had spoken again.

“But there is much you can still improve.”

He had set his textbook carefully aside, inclined his head towards the broomstick at his feet. He raised his eyebrows at her, a challenge and an invitation.

Gaby nodded sharply, and soon, they were chasing each other around the pitch, coaching and chasing and bantering until the stars burned bright in the sky.

For the first time in nearly three decades, Ravenclaw had gone on to win the Quidditch Cup that year.

Gaby had celebrated with her team and her House, but had slipped away amid the chaos to share a quiet victory with her friends. Solo had pilfered any number of delicacies from the kitchen, and even Illya had had a gift for her: a glass vial that shimmered with a silvery, turquoise liquid.

“Is potion for—” he waved his hand, the English word escaping him, “— _pokoy.”_

“Draught of Peace,” Solo said. “Did you make it yourself, Peril? That’s no small feat.”

“Is nothing.”

Gaby turned the vial over and over in her palm. _Peace._ A tonic for her nerves, to soothe the cold edge of her anxiety, the sharpness of her insomnia. What did it mean that Illya knew she could use it? “The hellebore,” she murmured, remembering, “and the valerian. From the greenhouse.”

She had pressed the gift to her chest and closed her eyes a moment. Already, she could feel the calm flowing through her, fortifying her soul, and warming her from the inside. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

That was the final night the three of them had together as students. Solo had graduated, and soon after, word got out that Illya would not be returning to Hogwarts.

He was going back to Russia.

Illya had asked her to write him. A giant, glossy raven had rapped on her window with a scroll tied to its leg. The letter was short, the penmanship impeccable. It had brought a smile to her face as she read it, even as she had scrambled to find a quill and parchment to respond.

It was month before she heard back. Their correspondences after that became less and less frequent, until finally, they had stopped entirely.

The years had passed and Gaby had largely been able to put him from her mind. Imagine her surprise, then, when she became an Auror… and was introduced (or rather _re-_ introduced) to her new partners, Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo.

Solo had recognized her instantly, something genuine and warm in that dazzling smile of his. Illya had been more reserved. Taciturn as ever, but there was a newfound confidence in the way he held himself, something understated that commanded attention. The corners of his lips had lifted in that familiar, private smile of his, and his eyes had locked onto hers, searching and sincere.

“Gaby,” he rumbled, clasping her hand in his own. “Is good to see you.”

It really was.

 

* * *

 

She looks at both men now with something approaching fondness. The Draught of Peace hangs like a pendant around her neck, a touchstone to keep her grounded, connected to herself. She wonders if Illya knows she kept it, that she is saving it for some shadowy Someday.

The door opens again, and they all turn to look. Waverly nods at them. His eyes are burning with excitement, his appearance slightly disheveled. “Good news, chaps. You’re being reassigned.”

“Sir?”

“While some of my compatriots at the Ministry may believe, Mr. Solo, that the Wizarding World begins and ends in England, we all know that that’s not the case,” he says. “The world—ours, the Muggles’ —is changing, and _we_ must change with it. Fortunately, I’ve convinced the Minister to see reason.”

Gaby’s eyes sweep over the Gryffindor. If anyone embodied the House tenets of daring and chivalry, it was Waverly. “You said we were being reassigned.”

“Yes. An international task force dedicated to upholding justice on a global scale. As head of this new division, I, of course, get to handpick my team.” He looks pointedly at Gaby. “I also get to decide _how_ they will be used. No more sitting on the sidelines for you, my dear.”

She is already starting to pack up her desk, her hands trembling with excitement. Her partners, however, are frozen in place, though Waverly hardly seems to notice.

“This division,” Solo says slowly, “does it have a name?”

Waverly beams. “UNCWLE.”

The three Aurors share a look, a frown. Solo coughs. “I’m sorry, sir. Is that Welsh?”

“It’s an _acronym,_ Solo. United Network Command for Wizarding Law and Enforcement.”

“Ah,” is Illya’s eloquent contribution. A pause, then, “when do we leave?”

“As soon as you’re ready. We have new headquarters and new liaisons with our Muggle counterparts that I’d like for you to meet.”

“Are we Apparating?”

Waverly shakes his head, barely concealing a smile. “Something a bit less conspicuous.” He tosses Gaby a shiny set of keys.

“We’re taking a… car.” Illya’s brow furrows. “Why?”

“Like I said, Kuryakin, our goal is to blend in, ease our Muggle friends into our world.” He does permit himself to grin then. “And Miss Teller, I believe, is the only Auror with a driving license.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking a lot about feedback culture recently—the social nature of fandom (to create and engage as a community, rather than in a vacuum) and the, at times, toxic sense of entitlement that runs on both sides. I am trying to cultivate a healthier relationship with this so as not to lose myself in the process of giving and creating... and the wait (and weight) of receiving some sort of validation. As such, I wanted to write a statement to symbolize my new commitment going forward. If this resonates with any other writers, you have my blessing to use it:
> 
> **In a gift economy like AO3, I am sharing this work freely for the enjoyment of the fandom. Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated, but not expected. If you are inspired to acknowledge or engage further with this story and its creator, I thank you. If you are here to simply sit around my campfire and share your time and interest in my writing, I thank you as well.**


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